xxxxi. but did you die?

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xxxxi

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xxxxi. BUT DID YOU DIE?

Xavier glared daggers in Daniel's direction as he sat, tied up with Ace's questionable handcuffs to the chair. Chase, Skye, Ace, and I looked to each other with uncertainty. We were afraid the assassin would murder the man standing before him. The Interpol agent smirked without any fear. His eyes glinted with entertainment, almost, and he ruffled Xavier's dark hair.

There's a death sentence.

Dozens of SWAT and Interpol agents filed through the door. "Oh come on," I groan. "What is this, Shakespeare in the park? I thought we were over these dramatics."

One of the guards stifles a chuckle. I swear I've never even seen any of these guards blink. They were like Buckingham Palace guards, but with AK-47s.

The Director purses his lips. "We were past it. Well that is, before Xavier tried to kill an ally."

"The shitface deserves it," Xavier states. "Interpol is pretty much obsolete, antiquated, antediluvian. Hold up let me dumb it down for the UN of international intelligence."

"That's what I said!" Ace laughs.

The Interpol agents around us stiffen. One of the female agents puts her finger on the trigger of her gun. This rivalry, the epoch of tribalism, was extremely anti-productive. It was like the debate of Xbox vs Playstation, cats vs dogs, Marvel vs DC.

The tension in the room felt like Avengers Civil War but without Christ Evans, RDJ, Tom Holland, and other hot guys.

Actually scratch that. Everyone in this room was extremely attractive. Was there an attractiveness requirement to joining any intelligence agency? And if so, why was I here?

The Director leads us into the briefing room. Or in Xavier's case, carried in by security personnel. All the guards are then asked to leave the soundproof room. The projector slowly comes down and turns on. Manila folders are passed out to each of us to follow along the briefing. Skye helps Xavier flip through the files since he's physically restrained.

Forest green eyes stare back at me from the first page. It's Thirteen, or rather, Ian Lochland, except he's much younger. There's no stubble on the profile. He looks about sixteen in the picture.

There was no evil in his eyes. There wasn't exactly naivety either, but rather, determination. It was the same glint of determination in the eyes of young people ready to change the world. It was impossible to believe that Ian Lochland had become a monster.

My limbs freeze. I catch Ace's concerned golden gaze from the adjacent table.

"I thought you said this case was too personal," Ace asserts to the Director, noticing my discomfort. "Ian—Thirteen hurt Octavia that night."

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